


His Favorite Color

by Catsintheattic



Series: SPN Episodes Prompts - Season 1 [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s01e01 Pilot, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Language, Past Character Death, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-26
Updated: 2011-04-26
Packaged: 2017-12-06 23:22:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/741372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catsintheattic/pseuds/Catsintheattic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Mary died, Dean didn’t stop drawing pictures, and John was still more father than drill sergeant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Favorite Color

John walks past the offices and toward the playground in search of Dean when Dean’s kindergarten teacher, Miss Martin beckons him into the children’s group room. The queasy feeling in his stomach is one he recognizes from dealing with all kinds of authorities. Since Mary’s death, he has learned that much: officials don’t get the Winchesters, they never do. They see a grieving man and two little boys and come to the wrong conclusions. And it always ends with John taking his sons and hitting the road.

John leans against one of the tables and casts a look through the back window. Dean is out in the playground, sitting all alone on the swings, gently moving forward and backward. He’ll be all right for a few more minutes.

Miss Martin’s eyes are narrowed in concern, but her voice is soft and friendly. “I’d like to talk to you about Dean,” she says. 

John suppresses a sigh. Everyone wants to talk about Dean these days. The only person who doesn’t want to talk about Dean, who doesn’t want to talk at all, is Dean himself. Maybe that’s why everyone else thinks that they should talk all the more. 

“I know,” he says, “he still doesn’t talk. But listen, he’s a good kid. There’s nothing wrong with him. After all, it’s only been a few months since his mom …”

He still can’t force himself to say the words, and thankfully, Miss Martin holds up her hand, spares him the ordeal. 

“I never implied differently. Dean _is_ a good kid. It’s not as if he doesn’t interact. His silence is his way of regaining control. Don’t worry – he’ll come around eventually.”

John feels confused, catches himself at the last moment before he tells her that he doesn’t worry about Dean, at least not in the way she thinks. “Then why,” he demands, “you want to talk to me?”

“It’s his choice of crayon.”

“His crayons?” John echoes, feeling like a complete moron. What the hell is she talking about?

Miss Martin turns and shuffles through a stack of papers, selects a few and pushes them toward John. “Here, take a look at these.”

He sees a house, a man and a woman and two little boys, one smaller than the other. It’s raining in the picture, with fat drops in the air and puddles on the street. In another drawing, a small animal – four legs, looks like a dog with floppy ears – is chasing a ball across the grassy yard, and a creature on two legs is sitting in a tree – might be a squirrel or a bird. Another drawing shows a wobbly portrait of the Impala. 

John swallows his proud grin, hands back the pictures. “I can’t see what’s wrong with them.”

Miss Martin shakes her head, doesn’t reach out. So John places the drawings on the table between them. 

“The coloring,” she says, adding nothing more, as if it should be obvious.

He looks down on the topmost drawing, the one of the Impala, and then it hits him. She’s right. The drawings … they’re all … _blue_. The car, the sky, the grass, the animals, even the little people – they’re all a dark, deep blue.

“Blue,” John says. 

Miss Martin nods, as if he has solved a particularly hairy problem. “Dean’s blue crayon is worn down to a stump. Do you have any idea why he refuses to use any other color?”

“I’ll … I’ll get him a new one. Right?”

She smiles at him, like she’s indulging a toddler. 

He feels himself get angry. “What’s wrong with blue?”

“A boy of Dean’s age should be able to distinguish between different colors instead of using a single one for all his drawings.”

John nods. “I see. But … he isn’t retarded or anything, if that’s what you’re afraid of. He can distinguish colors all right.”

She shudders a little at the crudeness of his choice of words, just like he thought she would. “All I’m trying to say is that we should keep an eye on him.”

John clears his throat. “Thanks for your concern. I’m sure you mean well.” He hesitates, waits for her to say something. But she doesn’t. Suddenly, all he wants is to take Dean and leave. “That all?” He doesn’t care if he sounds rude.

She pulls her eyebrows up, just a fraction. “That would be all, Mr. Winchester. For now.”

The implication is clear. _I’m keeping an eye you. And on your son._

John gives her a final nod and perfunctory goodbye, turns, and collects Dean from the swings. Together they walk toward the Impala, Dean’s grip tight on the lower end of John’s jacket. Another few days to wrap up the hunt, cash in his paycheck at the garage, and next week they’ll be on the road again. It’s getting too hot around here anyway.

When they’re settled in the car, John glances down at Dean’s hands. Dean is fiddling with a stubby blue crayon. John snorts, and Dean looks up at him, his expression attentive and just a fraction too tense. Like he’s trying to guess his dad’s intentions. When John smiles at him, Dean relaxes back into the passenger seat.

John stifles another snort, this one angrier than the last. A kindergarten teacher gets her panties in a knot over a couple of pictures! What does she know about colors anyway? She’s an idiot, all her insights on child psychology notwithstanding. 

Whenever John closes his eyes, all he sees is Mary’s face surrounded by flames. It’s easy to accept that blue must be the safest color for Dean, as far away from death as it could possibly be.

“You like blue, don’t you?” asks John. “Gotta get you a new crayon.” 

Dean doesn’t say a word, simply holds the stubby crayon up to his dad. John hesitates a moment before he accepts the gift and puts it away in the breast-pocket of his shirt. Dean’s face lights up in a smile. It’s Mary’s smile, and John wishes he could keep it on his son’s face forever. 

“That’s my boy.” He ruffles Dean’s hair, then turns the key in the ignition.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt taken form Episode 1.03, Dead in the Water:  
>  _Dean showing the picture he has drawn of his family to Lucas Bar_
> 
> I’m aware that John's language is rude at one point. It reflects the time period of the 80s and its attitudes, particularly as John is not someone who would aim for political correctness.
> 
> Thanks to paragraphs and to celta_diabolica for the beta and awesome suggestions!


End file.
